


Have You Passed Through This Night?

by solitary_thrush



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Food Porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitary_thrush/pseuds/solitary_thrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has trouble coping with the things he looks at for Jack. After a night of heavy drinking, he seeks Hannibal, even as Hannibal seeks to bend Will for his own purposes. Set between “Coquilles” and "Entree."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic draws on scenes from “Oeuf” (not broadcast in the U.S.; you can find scenes online). I expect the second part to be less angsty and dark.

“This great evil. Where’s it come from? How’d it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who’s doin’ this? Who’s killin’ us? […] Does our ruin benefit the earth? Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine? […] Is this darkness in you, too? Have you passed through this night?”

\- Explosions in the Sky, “Have You Passed Through This Night?” / _The Thin Red Line_

 

A knock at his door near midnight surprises Hannibal Lecter just as the last allegro movement of Vivaldi’s “L’autunno” comes to a close. He is not expecting anyone. In fact, he’s already dressed for bed and has drunk most of his after-dinner glass of Sauternes.

When he opens the door, Will Graham stands, swaying slightly, in the frame. 

Hannibal doesn’t need his extraordinary senses to tell that Will has been drinking. Drinking to and beyond excess: straight Kentucky bourbon of a decent age. Less obvious is the scent of physical exertion underneath cheap soap and shampoo that pairs exactly with the ship-on-the-bottle after shave Will wears. Within that scent, Hannibal detects wood smoke, cut grass and leaves, freshly-chopped oak wood, dog, and Will’s own, unique fragrance. 

He has worked outside most of the day, showered, drunk heavily, and come here. In a taxi. Hannibal can just scent that unmistakable smell, too. 

Hannibal reads the uncertainty in Will’s eyes and speaks quickly. 

“Will,” he says cordially, “please come in.”

“Thanks,” Will replies, slurring the word slightly and obviously relieved that he hasn’t had to speak first. 

“Please have a seat in the living room,” Hannibal says. “I will be right with you.”

In the kitchen, he measures fresh beans in the French press.

Will’s problems, already bad, have gotten worse. Although Hannibal does not wish him ill, he suspects that Will – and no one else but Will – may discover his secrets. The more difficulty Will has with his work for Jack, the easier it is for Hannibal to continue his own work, so Hannibal is pleased to see him - especially at this desperate hour. 

While he waits for the coffee, he fills a glass with water and takes it to Will. Will stands uncertainly in the middle of the room, studying its contents. Hannibal gestures to the chairs by the fire and offers Will the glass. 

Will settles into the chair and accepts the water but sets it aside. Even very drunk, Will seems like a coiled spring compressed too tightly. He sits forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames like a man contemplating humanity's mysteries, but Hannibal sees the obvious strain in his posture. Not only is he tense, his body is sore, too. He has worked too hard today, seen something troubling, and come here.

“You’ve been drinking,” Hannibal begins, crossing his right leg over the left. 

“Trying to get rid of my demons,” Will murmurs to the fire. 

He pauses significantly, turning over something in his mind Hannibal is not yet privy to. 

“If I can,” Will adds pessimistically, his tongue catching drunkenly on the fricative. When his gaze flickers to Hannibal, his eyes are filled with undistilled anguish.

“Your demons,” Hannibal echoes, crossing his legs and joining his hands in his lap. “The hallucinations are worse.”

Will nods and rubs his face clumsily as he takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“I’ve had a difficult day,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind me coming here.”

“Not at all,” Hannibal replies. “As I said, friends are always welcome.” 

“We’re not in your kitchen,” Will says, looking around the room with glazed eyes. 

He knows that Will would not be here if he did not want to talk. Will has the company of his dogs; he does not need other company unless he wants conversation.

Will's gaze skates across the portraits above the mantle. Knowing Will may be easily distracted by them, Hannibal prods him.

“Something happened,” Hannibal says.

Will’s eyes snap back to Hannibal. Uncertainty and fear well up beneath the unsteady ocean of liquor. 

“I’m sorry,” Will says suddenly, pushing himself up, “I’m very drunk. I should go.” 

Hannibal recognizes the intent in Will’s phrasing: not _I shouldn’t be here_ but _I should go. Tell me I should stay._

“I’ve just put on some coffee,” Hannibal says, knowing that, as a southerner, Will has a weakness for hospitality. 

Will sits again. “Well, in that case…” 

Hannibal’s gaze moves suggestively from Will to the untouched glass of water. 

Will looks at it dumbly. “I’m not sure I want to sober up.” 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows just so. “You do not usually drink to excess,” Hannibal observes. 

Will sighs heavily and closes his eyes for a long moment.

“I thought it might help,” he says eventually. “It was worth a try.”

“You were trying to forget.” 

“Of course I was.” 

He takes another deep breath. He wants to talk, but won’t let himself begin. He is more upset and disturbed than Hannibal has ever seen him. Given that Will's default state is a sort of prickly stoicism, he must have had a truly tortuous day. 

“You came to me for one reason only,” Hannibal says. 

Will looks up at him, his eyes dulled by drink but sharp with thought. 

“I needed to get outside of my head,” he admits. “The dogs weren’t helping.” 

“So you came to me,” Hannibal says approvingly. “As you should have.”

Will nods gratefully. With Will, Hannibal knows, so much depends upon saying the hospitable thing. In this way, they are alike.

When a few moments pass in silence, Hannibal excuses himself to pour the coffee. He goes to an alcove adjacent to the kitchen and extracts a mortar and pestle, and a tablet of clonazepam. He grinds the tablet to a fine powder. It’s a low dose; it won’t cause Will any harm, but, combined with the alcohol already in his system, it will render him immobile. He will sleep deeply and without interruption. Hannibal cannot risk him sleepwalking. 

Hannibal returns with the coffee to find Will still staring at the fire, the glass of water untouched. Will accepts the coffee, sips it, and sets it aside. 

Hannibal waits, savoring his own coffee, and studies Will until, after a while, Will is ready to talk. 

“I was mowing the leaves on my lawn,” Will begins. “The dogs were out playing. It was a nice day. Nothing unusual. I was nearly done when I saw an anthill in the path of the mower.”

He pauses and rubs his hands together. His eyes flicker up to Hannibal’s and back down to the fire. 

“Before I could run over it, Budish – the Angel-maker – appeared. He didn’t say anything, but I saw myself as he would have seen me.” 

“As you did in the barn,” Hannibal clarifies, recalling Will’s description of the hallucination: Budish seeing his head on fire. The change of perspective Will experienced was uncommon when it happened once; now it has recurred. Interesting. 

“But he saw the crimes of humanity against humanity,” Hannibal observes. 

“I don’t consider this a crime,” Will responds, his tone tinged with anger. 

It’s anger at himself, Hannibal knows. Will is not a killer because he directs his impulses inward rather than outward. 

“Part of you does,” Hannibal points out. 

“No, none of me does,” Will retorts. “I may be plagued by guilt but I don’t consider my actions criminal. Budish, in my head, does, but not me.” 

Hannibal hears aggression, augmented by alcohol, in his tone. He slurs the sibilants more noticeably. 

“Perhaps this is how you get him out of your head,” Hannibal suggests. “You externalize the trauma in a non-stressful situation. Your mind protects itself by making mountains out of anthills – so that when you face the real mountains, you will do so with a clear head.”

Will sniffs derisively. “Yeah, hallucinating over an ant mound is my mind’s way of protecting itself.” 

Hannibal inclines his head in agreement. He purposefully offered a weak theory for Will to shoot down.

“You did not come here over an anthill,” Hannibal observes. 

Will’s eyes darken. His reluctance remains strong in spite of his more or less uninhibited state. 

They sit in silence, sipping coffee and studying the flames in the hearth, until Will is ready. 

“Over the summer,” Will begins, “I cut down a dead tree and sawed it into sections. I’ve been splitting them into firewood for the winter.” His eyes flit up to Hannibal. “I’ll bring you some if you like.”

“Yes, please,” Hannibal responds courteously. 

His eyes bore into Will, urging him to continue.

Will rubs his hands over his face again. “I didn’t sleep last night. I thought if I exhausted myself today, I’d sleep.” 

He rolls his shoulder and grimaces. 

“Does that usually work?”

Will looks up to meet his eyes. “It used to.” 

He looks down into the coffee again, still working his shoulder in its socket. “This time, I think it just made me sore.” 

“It’s still early,” Hannibal notes. “So, Budish appeared and judged you for killing a tree?”

Will snorts; a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That would have been easier.” 

His smile fades. He takes another deep breath.

“In September, I made a pile of the unsplit logs. I’ve been chopping since then. Today, I got near the bottom of the pile – and my dog – my terrier mix – came up to me with a rat in his mouth.”

“This is odd behavior?”

“No. It’s instinctual for him. But he usually kills them.”

“So he brought you an injured but living animal?”

Will nods, refusing to meet Hannibal's gaze.

“And you had to kill it.” 

“It was the only humane thing to do.” 

“I agree,” Hannibal says. “But Budish – the Budish in your mind – does not.” 

“He tried to stab me again,” Will says. “To cut out the evil.” 

Will’s words hang in the air. For a moment, the crackle of the fire is the only sound. 

“Before or after you killed the animal?”

“Before. I raised the axe head of the maul and then he was there with his – _condemnation_.” 

Will spits the last word out. 

“I missed the first time. I could hear it breathing…” 

His hands have started to shake. Hannibal sees tension in his jaw muscles. Not even a substantial portion of straight liquor can quell Will’s demons. 

Hannibal waits again until Will is ready to resume. He has drunk half of the coffee. Even if he consumes no more of it, he will be overcome by the drug in ten to fifteen minutes. 

Will swallows convulsively. 

“My dad taught me how to squirrel hunt when I was a kid,” he begins. 

Hannibal raises a curious eyebrow. This is another thing Will has in common with Hobbs. 

“Every boy in Mississippi squirrel hunts,” Will adds with a glance at Hannibal: distancing himself from Hobbs. 

Hannibal’s expression encourages him to continue. Will takes a large swallow of coffee as if it is the only thing that will see him through his story. 

“I was out by myself while my dad worked. I must have been twelve or thirteen. I shot one in the gut – ”

He pauses again. Hannibal sees distance in his eyes: he is reliving the scene. 

Will takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Before I could shoot again, it ran into a hole in a hollow cypress tree and fell down to the trunk. I could hear it breathing inside the tree, but I couldn’t get to it.”

He coughs and clears his throat. 

“Wheezing. It made this awful wheezing noise. The sound of dying.” 

Firelight glints in Hannibal’s eyes as he imagines the scene: a sensitive adolescent learning what it means to cause suffering and death. A memory of himself at a much younger age discovering the same truth flashes before him. He sips the coffee. 

“You could do nothing for it?”

Hannibal can almost see in Will’s eyes the reflection of a cypress tree and an anguished boy, a rifle lying forgotten at his side. 

“Just listen to it die," Will says hollowly. 

“Childhood traumas stay with us no matter how much we might like to forget them,” Hannibal observes. 

Will says nothing. He gulps the last of the coffee and fidgets with the glass. 

“While not ideal, your actions are just,” Hannibal adds. “Though part of you disagrees.” 

Will sighs. “I just want to be able to sleep.” 

“You thought alcohol would help,” Hannibal states. 

Will laughs bitterly. “It hasn’t even gotten rid of my headache.” 

Hannibal sits forward and tents his hands. “You know my position. You need a break.” 

“But I can’t take a break,” Will says, his voice vicious yet teetering on the edge of collapse. He is like a drowning man refusing a life line because he thinks it is his duty to drown. 

“I talked to Jack and – ” He looks up sharply at Hannibal. “His wife has cancer.”

Hannibal nods slightly. “I have spoken with her.”

“So now he’s going to push me harder,” Will says shakily. “You said I need a way out of the dark places. I haven’t found one.” 

“There may be only one way out,” Hannibal replies. 

“I don’t accept that,” Will answers sharply. “There has to be another option.” 

Hannibal inclines his head, conceding the point. 

Will sighs again and closes his eyes for a long moment. 

“I should go,” he says. “I don’t want to keep you up.” 

He tries to stand but barely rises at all before he collapses back in the chair with a grunt. Hannibal watches him blink his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his head. 

“It seems the alcohol is working after all,” Hannibal observes mildly. “You’re welcome to stay here.” 

Will looks at him through drooping eyelids and nods once, gratitude flashing in his hazy eyes. 

Hannibal stands and offers Will a hand. Will sways and swallows sickly but manages to stay on his feet as Hannibal leads him to a divan. 

When Hannibal returns with a pillow and afghan, Will has slipped off his shoes and curled up on his side, making a pillow out of his jacket.

Hannibal touches his shoulder softly. “This will be more comfortable.” 

Will’s eyes snap open and immediately try to close again. He’s disoriented, but he takes the pillow from Hannibal and shoves it under his head on top of the jacket. Hannibal drapes the afghan over him and removes his glasses, setting them aside. 

“Sleep well, my good Will.” 

Already wrapped in drug-aided sleep, Will doesn’t hear him. 

Hannibal returns to his chair, adjusting the angle so he can watch Will sleep. The fire crackles and pops in the hearth. 

Neither man moves for a long time. Will does not so much as twitch while he sleeps. Hannibal watches with equal calmness. 

When Hannibal finally retires, the hearth holds a rapidly greying bed of coals.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal prepares something special to ease Will's hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ~~think~~ know you will like this chapter more than you did the first one.

For the first time since Jack Crawford walked into his classroom, wakefulness unfurls slowly for Will. He knows that he isn’t in his house, nor is he waking up somewhere he shouldn’t be, but before he can put a name to the rarefied, expensive fragrance around him, a hangover slams into him with the force of a hurricane. Arid mouth, aching head, petulant nausea, crushing dizziness – all that and he hasn’t even moved yet. 

He remembers yesterday: the simple happiness of spending the day outside working with his hands while the dogs romped in the yard, something he had needed badly after finding Budish in the barn; the intrusion of Budish into his happy day, along with the strong sense that none of them – not Hobbs, not Stammets, not Budish, not the next one or the one after that – would ever leave him alone, and that he didn’t know any more how far he was from becoming them; skipping dinner despite the voracious appetite he’d worked up during the day because he couldn’t stomach any food; sitting in front of the fire while the dogs slept and draining the better part of a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s twenty-year-old family reserve Kentucky straight bourbon; trying to tie flies with unsteady hands when the flames reminded him too much of his hallucinations; eventually calling a cab because he couldn’t get outside of his head and there was only one place he could go. 

He recalls his conversation with Hannibal. Shit, did he really tell Hannibal about the squirrel he failed to kill when he was a boy? He did. Shit. He’s opening up too much. Hannibal may be able to help him where others have failed, but he doesn’t have to give too much of himself away. Now more than ever, he needs his forts. 

And yet he senses daylight – piercing, searing daylight – on the other side of his aching eyelids. He’s obviously slept for several hours. He doesn’t remember dreaming, and for once, his clothes and skin are dry. Despite the ruthless hangover, he feels rested. 

Something he did last night helped. 

But the price may be too high. He hasn’t gotten drunk like this since he worked homicide and he would carry home the thoughts of killers, psychopaths or not, every night. He quit homicide before it could become a serious problem. 

And now his head is completely fucked up. There's not enough space for each psychopath and sociopath to live – not if he wants to stay sane. Not when he knows how powerful he felt when he killed Hobbs. Not when the only thing between him and becoming one of them is his own volition, and it feels like the thinnest thread that's begun to fray already. 

He can’t quit without feeling culpable, though. It’s not his burden to bear, he knows that, but…maybe he can bear it a little while longer. 

Whatever is going on in his head terrifies him. Only the dogs and Hannibal have helped him hold on this long. 

When he worked homicide, he’d wake up sick like this to hungry dogs and no one else. No person with whom he had to interact. Now he’s in Hannibal’s house on a couch that’s too short for him, disgustingly hungover but also, somehow, oddly, splendidly, rested. 

He can’t do anything with his jumbled thoughts, though. He’s putting everything he has into willing the room to stop spinning so he won’t vomit on what he imagines is very nice rug. 

While he’s concentrating on stillness, his leg twitches and awakens a cacophony of complaints from his muscles. When he’d spent eight hours doing manual labor yesterday, he was aiming for the pleasant soreness of hard work, but clearly he overdid it. He’s sure he could overdose on aspirin and still not rid his muscles of their stiffness, soreness, and strain.

He indulges in a groan. This isn't a viable way to deal with his problem. 

“Will?” 

Hannibal’s voice is soft but distant. Will needs a moment to place him on the other side of the cartwheeling room. 

“Yeah,” Will forces himself to say.

He hears Hannibal’s footsteps as he crosses the room. Will considers opening his eyes, but he knows the dizziness would be much worse and the light would intensify his already pounding headache, so he merely listens. 

He hears Hannibal move a piece of furniture next to the couch and place a glass on it. 

“Homemade ginger ale with lemon,” Hannibal says quietly. “Sip it slowly and lie still until you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Will croaks. 

He hears Hannibal’s footsteps cross the room and fade away. At least the man knows how to deal with a hangover. Will appreciates that. 

He braces himself for the full force of his folly and cautiously opens his eyes. A living room that fits Hannibal as perfectly as one of his bespoke three-piece suits waltzes into view. 

Will shuts his eyes tightly and thinks, _don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up_. He keeps still and breathes until the nausea burning under his sternum recedes. 

Knowing that he has to drink what Hannibal has brought unless he wants to lie here for hours, Will cracks his eyes open to find the glass. Hannibal has included a straw. Strange – he does not seem like the kind of man who would have straws in his kitchen. 

The carbonated water with fresh ginger and lemon is familiar but unlike any ginger ale he’s ever had before. It’s delicious – chilled, too, though no ice is in the glass. It wets his dry mouth and cuts the lingering taste and smell of bourbon. 

He does as instructed: sips slowly and lies still until, more quickly than he expected, he does feel better – though in this case, “better” means he’s no longer seconds from puking on the rug. 

He dozes – something he rarely does – and wakes to find the glass full again. Hannibal has left his glasses for him, too, and though he doesn’t need them yet, he’s glad to know where they are. 

Over an hour passes before he feels well enough to try sitting up, and then, it’s only because he has to find a bathroom. 

Hannibal, with impeccable timing, appears again and in response to Will’s question, says, “Yes, this way. In fact, I’ve just prepared for you one of my own remedies for overexertion.” 

Will raises a quizzical eyebrow. 

“You mentioned last night that you were suffering muscle strain from your work yesterday.”

“I did?” Will asks, placing the palm of his head on his forehead to stifle the pounding of his head as Hannibal, still in his robe, waits for Will to stand. 

His balance is off when he does get to his feet. He sways and, unable to stop himself, groans. Hannibal is right: muscles he didn’t know he had hurt right now. 

Hannibal’s mouth quirks between amusement and sympathy, and he leads Will slowly through the living room and into the kitchen. 

“You don’t have a hangover cure, too, do you?” Will says sardonically. “I’d prefer that.” 

“It will ease your hangover,” Hannibal says pleasantly. “Meanwhile, I will prepare breakfast.” 

They stop at a closed door along a hallway with many closed doors. 

“What is it?” Will asks, trying to blink Hannibal into focus and tamp down the urge to curl up in an aching ball on the floor. 

“A hot bath with Epsom salts,” Hannibal answers. “It’s very simple, but I find that when, after vigorous exercise, I have done too much, it helps tremendously. It is hot enough to make you sweat. Continue drinking – ” Hannibal hands him another glass of ginger ale, “ – and you will feel much better.”

“Do you do this for all your friends?” Will asks. “It seems a little unorthodox.” His tone speaks for him: _a lot_ unorthodox. 

He doesn’t mean to be rude to Hannibal, but he’s an abrasive person even when he isn’t hungover, and the notion of taking his clothes off in Hannibal's house to take a bath is weird. Very weird. 

“If you would just prefer breakfast – ” Hannibal begins.

Hannibal looks slightly hurt. And breakfast – the thought of food turns Will’s stomach. At least a bathroom has a toilet he can hug.

“Forget I said anything,” Will says, offering a slight smile. “Thanks for thinking of me.” 

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal replies. He’s more pleasant than Will has ever seen him. That’s also odd. 

“Breakfast in – half an hour?” Hannibal asks. 

“Sure, thanks,” Will says and opens the door eagerly, thinking of his painfully full bladder. 

Everything about the room, like everything about this morning, is strange. The lighting is dim, meant to feel like candlelight. He can open his eyes here without pain. A pleasant scent – something with mint and rosemary or sage – fills the air. Light music emanates from speakers he has trouble locating. Something by Debussy that Will doesn't recognize but is entirely appropriate for the scene. Water steams in an antique claw foot tub; Will can see the heat rising in whorls from the surface. 

The cumulative effect is, well, romantic.

_Weird._

Will flushes the toilet and washes his hands with expensive soap whose scent compliments the one in the air. 

He wonders if he's being seduced. And yet, as odd as the whole thing is, he feels terrible and knows that immersing himself in hot water will ease his pain.

“All right, Hannibal,” Will mutters, working on the buttons of his shirt, “if you’re watching, here’s your show.” 

His hands hesitate when they reach his belt, but he pushes himself on. If Hannibal wanted to take advantage of him, he had ample opportunity last night. And after all, Will did come to him, not vice versa. 

Maybe this tableau isn't meant to be romantic; maybe it reflects a meticulous, thoughtful friend providing for the troubled loner in his life who also happens to be his friend. And that might be a good thing. He doesn't know.

Thinking about his own emotions makes Will’s head hurt worse, so he seeks the remedy Hannibal has prepared. 

The water is hot – too hot. He begins with a foot, hissing when it’s in the water. Just when he thinks he can’t bear the heat any longer, suddenly he can. Pleased, he slowly lowers his other foot into the water, waits for the adjustment, and eventually settles into the tub. 

It _is_ nice. Very nice. Unlike the bathtub in Will’s house, this one is deep enough to allow the water to easily reach his chest. He rests his head gingerly against the wall, expecting a hard surface. Instead, a soft one greets him. He turns to see a bath pillow built into the handsome tile of the wall. 

Hannibal uses this tub himself. 

The thought shocks Will. He had assumed that this was a guest bathroom and that Hannibal did not use it. Its position along the hall – first door on the right – seemed to confirm that supposition. Yet the evidence to the contrary cushions his head. 

He closes his eyes. For once, he doesn’t want to worry about anything. With an effort, he shoves aside his buzzing thoughts and just relaxes. 

He makes it five minutes – five long, lavish, incredibly comfortable minutes – before he can’t keep them out any longer. 

Looking at this scene as an analytical observer, he would say Hannibal is wooing him. Either romance or great kindness and care motivated the person who did this. There’s intimate knowledge of himself, too, in the timing of it that can’t have been happenstance. How else would the water be as hot as Hannibal had promised? 

This feels like a move on a chess board. Not a significant one – this is something like knight takes pawn – but one that’s necessary for a long-term strategy. 

He has to think about his own role in this, too, even if it makes him uncomfortable. Hannibal knows more about him than any other person he’s met – and Hannibal calls him a friend. Feeds his dogs when he’s out of town. Doesn’t mind him showing up early or late. 

Will has too little experience with friendship to know how normal this relationship really is. He suspects it isn’t normal. But Hannibal isn’t normal. He’s extraordinary in so many ways. And Will himself has never been normal. Ergo, this might not be as strange as it seems. 

Having dispensed with the easy option, Will is nagged by the other possibility. He knows romance when he sees it, but he has rarely been its target. A few times, yes, in college and when he was a cop in New Orleans; he’s had his share of admirers. And others, the well-intentioned people who have tried to befriend him in a manner not dissimilar to his collecting stray dogs, have told him that he’s physically attractive. He’s heard that often enough to believe it, though he doesn't particularly care how he looks. Attraction matters less than compatibility.

Compatibility. Perhaps that’s it. Other than the vast difference in their material preferences and the smaller difference in the level of bullshit they can tolerate, he and Hannibal are strikingly alike. It might disturb him if he thought about it - which is why he doesn’t think about it any more than he has to. He and Hannibal get along in a way he’s never gotten along with anyone before. He doesn’t want to mess that up by investing something in the relationship. No expectations, no pain.

But now he has little else to do but think, and in this setting – this scene made for him – he can think only about why Hannibal would do this for him. 

Hannibal, who is an outrageously attractive man in every possible way. Will realizes he knows almost nothing about Hannibal’s past. But for a handsome, intelligent, talented, wealthy, fair-minded, caring man like him to have no obvious romantic partner… 

If this isn’t a chess game, it’s an invitation. Most likely, it's both. 

In this moment, with his body soothed by the heat of the water and his senses by the aroma, music, and soft light, it feels like an invitation. He isn’t sure how to accept or deny or even acknowledge receipt, nor which course of action to pursue.

He decided years ago that he would not attempt any relationships with people. Too complicated; never worth the trouble. Dogs, fly fishing, boat motors – they're all closed systems. Predictable. Not people. Working for Jack, he’s already had too much of people. Even when he had only students, he had plenty of people and didn’t want any more.

And with his head where it is right now, so fucked up by Hobbs that he isn’t sure where he ends and the killers he hunts begin, the very idea of a relationship is ludicrous. 

But maybe Hannibal isn’t people. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to clear his head, and drinks more ginger ale. With it, Hannibal may well have a hangover cure. 

He takes a breath and slides under the water. The warmth eases his headache, and when he surfaces, his head and shoulders cool quickly. Where he had been sweating before, now he’s comfortable. His hangover is dissolving like the salts Hannibal put in his bathwater. 

A thought comes to him from nowhere: did Hannibal imagine him naked in here, enjoying this bath? 

Probably. He had to have thought about it on some level. 

Blood, which had already been pooling in Will's groin, rushes forward and he’s suddenly harder than he’s been in a long time. He exhales as desire bathes his brain and body in a wash of heady chemicals. 

This is very bad. If he does this, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep it from Hannibal – and he needs Hannibal to fortify the thread of his sanity. 

But everything about this – it’s like Hannibal expects him to pleasure himself. At the very least, Will has trouble imagining that Hannibal would mind very much. He doesn’t need to know he’s the object of Will’s fantasies. 

Maybe he’s still a little drunk, but this doesn’t seem like a terrible idea. Moreover, he either does this or takes a cold shower, and he’s not taking a cold shower.

Will glances around the room. “If you’re watching,” he says quietly, “this is for you.” 

The thought of Hannibal watching him do this makes him painfully hard. He closes his eyes, bites his lip, and plunges a hand into the water to wrap skillfully around his impatient cock. 

He thinks of Hannibal and his “vigorous exercise.” Will settles on tennis. He can easily picture Hannibal playing tennis. The strong, well-developed muscles in his legs contained by tight, white shorts. A form-fitting synthetic blue shirt. The quick grace of his athletic movements. The intensity on his face as he concentrates. His grunts and shouts when he wins the point. 

Then Hannibal would come here afterward to soak in the same place – perhaps with the same details of smell, sound, and light. He would wipe the sweat off and undress, then slip into hot water in this tub. 

Maybe he would do the same thing Will is doing right now. 

Will increases the pace and pressure, tilting his head back and breathing hard.

Maybe lately, Hannibal has thought of Will while he does this. 

Will stifles a moan as that idea nearly sends him over the edge.

Will bites down hard on his lip and imagines watching Hannibal, naked, stroking himself just as intently as Will is. It’s been so long since he had a proper fantasy that he doesn’t need much more. 

He lets fantasy take over and imagines Hannibal next to him, kneeling, naked and rock hard, taking Will’s cock in his hand and applying the right pressure and speed and saying the perfect words in his rich voice to get him close, so close, so close, closer still, closer, closer – until he comes fast and hard in Hannibal’s hand. 

Will pants through the sweet rush of orgasm, his hand stilling as the last of his semen spills into the water. He can’t recall the last time masturbation felt that good.

He lies bonelessly in he tub as he comes down from the high of orgasm. 

If he could skip the way he felt an hour ago and pair the full night’s sleep with this kind of intense masturbation, he might be able to do this. Hell, if he could sleep and jerk off like this every day, he’d suffer the hangover, too.

Will opens the drain and finds the towel Hannibal has left him. He worries that Hannibal will know what he’s done, but he feels too good right now to care. He decides to deal with it if it comes up and not to worry in the interim. 

As he towels himself off, he almost feels like whistling. He hasn’t felt so good in a very, very long time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The more open he’s willing to be with Hannibal, the easier it will be for Hannibal to bend good Will’s volition to his own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I will write an ending that satisfies me. Today is not that day. Still, I hope it works for you.

Hannibal stands at the kitchen counter chopping peppers, green onions, and celery while a special treat he prepared last week for Will thaws in the sink. Knowing Will would come to his home again soon, Hannibal selected a prime cut from the rabbit he recently killed and processed it into Andouille sausage. It will rival the best New Orleans has to offer. As he slices the vegetables he will serve on the side, he considers Will once again. 

As his name suggests, Will is a study in conviction. He inhabits the hearts and minds of others whose thoughts, feelings, and actions repulse him, and he has too little regard for the immense psychological toll the work takes on him, too little concern for himself. He does this for three reasons. First, he is loyal to Jack Crawford, a man who manipulates him. Second, he possesses a virtuous character, an attribute that opens him to manipulation. Quitting would be a moral failure, one he cannot abide; he accepts Jack’s lie that he has an obligation to prevent the violent deaths of others. 

But he is not so pure – something he suspected of himself before Hobbs. Something killing Hobbs confirmed. That confirmation, and the fear that he will kill again not in self-defense but because it makes him feel powerful, prevents him from sleeping and fills his head with nightmares when he does finally rest. This is the third reason: he savors the thrill of the chase and the lesser form of power he feels when he catches someone – because when he prevents a death, he feels the righteousness of a just, omnipotent God. For a man with Will’s moral convictions, that flash of righteousness is as strong a narcotic as killing is to those he tracks. He does not need to become a killer himself to feel power. He merely needs others to kill brutally for him.

He does all of this in spite of his disconnection from and dislike of most people, the very people he saves. They annoy him. They get in his way. They intrude on his quietude with their emotions and motivations, their needs and desires. He prefers the less exhausting company of his dogs and the comforting accoutrement of his childhood. 

He could live out the remainder of his life in his little house in Wolf Trap, near the pulse of the world but sheltered from its hue and cry, teaching FBI trainees about the most driven killers of now and then. But he chooses not to return to his hermitage. Jack may keep him in thrall, but Will lets himself be kept – so that he might feel once again the transcendence of absolute control. Yet he has no trace of narcissistic personality disorder – no God complex. Quite the opposite. He is a man who feels he has no control over his life. 

Hannibal’s lips curl in a smile. He will return that control to Will. If Will lets him. 

He hears the bathroom door open as the sausage sizzles in one pan and the vegetables simmer in another. Good timing. 

Hannibal glances up when Will enters the kitchen. Will is still sore and slightly sick, but he’s more relaxed than Hannibal has ever seen him. The tension that usually pervades his body like a violin string tuned a step too high is gone. Hannibal detects the smells from yesterday on Will’s clothes – bourbon, wood smoke, and desperation – beneath the stronger aroma of eucalyptus and arnica from the bath salts that clings to Will’s skin. Underneath it all, he can just make out the subtle, salty scent of semen. 

He smiles. He is always pleased when his plans come to fruition as he envisioned them. 

“You enjoyed the soak,” Hannibal says. 

“I did,” Will answers, looking very much like he wants to sit down and savor the relaxation. “You sure know how to set a mood.”

He scouts the room for a chair and, finding none, leans against the wall to watch Hannibal cook. 

“That smells great,” Will says. 

Hannibal smiles. “I think you will like it,” he answers, pouring some of the grease from the sausage on the vegetables. “It will be ready in just a few minutes.” 

Will nods once and stops. He shuts his eyes and rubs his head, grimacing. 

“Headache?” Hannibal asks. 

“Common side effect,” Will grouses, lifting his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Hannibal catches his eye and directs him to the counter.

With an effort, Will shoves himself off the wall and approaches the counter where a glass of water, two aspirin, and an bottle of after shave whose scent Hannibal finds magnificent await him. 

Will’s mouth tugs in a wry smile. He swallows the aspirin and picks up the indigo container, turning it over in his hands. 

“No ship on the bottle,” he observes. He opens it and sniffs appreciatively. 

When he looks at Hannibal, a chaotic miasma of amusement, appreciation, surprise, uncertainty, fear, and well-guarded lust dances in his eyes. 

“Is this what you use?”

“No. It was a gift.”

“You’re re-gifting,” Will says incredulously, as if he did not think a man like Hannibal would do such a thing. 

Hannibal shrugs and plates the sausage and vegetables. “You need it more than I do,” he answers. “With what you wear, I’m amazed you don’t have a constant migraine.” 

Will chuckles amiably and sets the bottle aside. 

“If you would be so kind, you will find two chairs in the next room,” Hannibal says as he opens the oven. 

When Will returns with the chairs, Hannibal has arranged the plates with fresh coffee. Will hands him a chair and studies the food curiously. 

“Andouille sausage seasoned by me, beignets, and Cajun mirepoix with pickled magnolia pedals,” Hannibal says as they sit.

“Picked magnolia pedals,” Will echoes, clearly impressed. “I didn’t know they were edible.” 

Hannibal smiles and slices into his portion of sausage. It’s rich and spicy in a way Will will appreciate, and tender in a way only Hannibal notices. 

As if unsure how to approach the meal in front of him, Will follows Hannibal’s lead and chooses the sausage. 

“Has anyone ever told you your attention to detail can be unnerving?” he says as he slices through the meat. “I mean, I appreciate it – but it’s – ” 

He stops to eat and is arrested by the flavor. An expression of pure culinary delight comes over his face: eyes closed, eyebrows raised toward heaven. Hannibal watches him rapturously. 

At length, Will swallows and opens his eyes to meet Hannibal’s. Will drops some of his defenses, allowing Hannibal to see attraction and desire in his gaze. 

Before Hannibal can respond, Will tears his eyes away. Good Will is still so unsure of himself. They must work on that.

“Wow,” Will says, “forget I said anything. You made this?”

Hannibal smiles. “When you mentioned you worked in New Orleans,” he says, “I thought of this signature meat. I had not tried to make it before, but knowing your origins, I thought I might try my hand and solicit the opinion of a native.” 

Will cuts another piece. “You’d put everyone there out of business.”

Hannibal inclines his head in thanks. Will closes his eyes again as he chews, allowing Hannibal to savor Will’s ecstatic expression. Somewhere between putting on a show and experiencing genuine delight lies Will’s behavior. Closer to the latter than the former, Hannibal knows, but Will is not enjoying the food _that_ much.

Suddenly, Hannibal is certain Will was thinking of him when he was in the bath. Androgens wash through his blood as it rushes to his groin. He smiles like a contented cat. 

Will’s eyes are hazy with pleasure when he opens them. 

Hannibal’s smile grows as he samples the mirepoix. Will may allow himself to be trained after all. This is a big step forward, but Hannibal knows he will have few opportunities as good as this one to condition Will’s behavior. He must make the most of them.

Will bites into the beignets and moans a little. “These are fresh,” he says. 

Hannibal smiles. Knowing that food cooked with him in mind thrills Will is quite helpful. 

“I mixed the dough last night.” 

Uncertainty and caution flashes in Will’s eyes as it did when he said Hannibal’s attention to detail was unnerving. Will does not want to think about last night. 

“Am I not doing what you do, Will?”

“But with food?” Will adds. He inclines his head. “I suppose so. Better to do it with food than – ” 

Will pauses and turns his eyes away, slipping again into the dark places. He has lost most of his control over his own visions; they come to him unbidden. In this way more than any other, Hannibal can help him. But willful Will is not yet willing to be helped. He thinks he should suffer first for the crime of enjoying the titillation of taking a life.

“I agree,” Hannibal says and Will snaps back to the present. His expression is haunted and a subtle tremor passes through his body as he looks at Hannibal. 

Quickly, he looks down and takes bite of the beignet. He chews for a moment, then smiles, his eyes warming as he studies the fried, sugary pastry. 

“When I was a cop, we used to have these every Saturday morning,” he says. “Friday night was always busy.” 

His eyes go distant again, revisiting innumerable violent crime scenes. After a moment, his eyes slide down to the donut. 

“Thinking of these helped me get through the night sometimes. The worst was always over by the time these arrived.” 

Hannibal scrutinizes Will, pleased that he’s sharing more of his past. The more open he’s willing to be with Hannibal, the easier it will be for Hannibal to bend good Will’s volition to his own. 

“Perhaps that’s true this time as well,” Hannibal says. 

Will looks up at him, the dark emotions of last night playing over his face again. Hannibal sees how badly Will wants to hope it’s true, that the worst has passed. But, for all his imagination, Will is a realist. He may be closer to hope right now than Hannibal has seen him, but he still refuses to let hope in. Instead, the eyes of a scarred, haunted man bore into Hannibal. 

“Do you remember the things you said last night, Will?” Hannibal asks, breaking eye contact. 

Will nods and loads mirepoix onto his fork. “It’s a little hazy, but yes.” He pauses, fork in the air, and smiles slightly. “I owe you some firewood.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Hannibal says, also smiling, “but I would appreciate it.” 

Will nods, his expression grateful. Normally, Hannibal knows, Will would not mind feeling obliged to him. Will’s character and upbringing reward him with a positive sense of self when he repays a courtesy to someone who has extended courtesy to him. But Jack has preyed on Will’s sense of responsibility, on the core of who he is. He would not be hallucinating Budish as a moral authority if Jack hadn’t tainted Will’s own with heinous murders. Will won’t be open with Hannibal unless he knows he is neither judged nor obligated. 

Will’s smile confirms Hannibal’s assessment. “Then you shall have it.”

Hannibal inclines his head in thanks and presses on. “You managed to sleep.” 

“Yeah,” Will says, finishing the mirepoix. “I haven’t slept that well in weeks.”

Hannibal sips his coffee. “Do you normally sleep well when you drink?”

Will mirrors his action, also sipping coffee. It’s an unconscious motion, one that pleases Hannibal greatly. 

“It helps me fall asleep,” Will answers. “I don’t usually stay asleep like I did last night. But I also don’t usually drink a whole bottle bourbon.” 

Will’s look of chagrin tells Hannibal all he needs to know about Will’s attitude toward heavy drinking.

“Do you usually try to exhaust yourself first?” Hannibal continues. 

Will shakes his head and bites into another beignet. He chews contemplatively. 

“Maybe I should,” he says at length. 

“You think the combination worked?”

Will shrugs. “Had to,” he says, sipping his coffee. He eyes the glass with mock suspicion. “Unless you put something in the coffee.” 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows at the accusation. “Coffee beans and water,” he says with a smile. 

Will trusts his answer. Hannibal sees not a glimmer doubt in his face. 

“Physical labor and excessive drinking may have helped you sleep, but they haven’t been kind to you,” Hannibal observes. “You would be hard pressed to make them a habit.” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Will replies, bitterness warping his voice. He rolls his shoulders with a wince.

For a fraction of a second, Hannibal wishes Will would accept a massage, but he knows now is not the time. 

“You have tried sleeping medication.”

“If it’s out there, I’ve tried it,” Will says tiredly, toying with a piece of diced pepper so he won’t have to look at Hannibal. “The ones that work disrupt my thinking during the day. The ones that don’t make my dreams…much worse.” 

Hannibal expresses sorrowful sympathy when Will glances at him. He is sorry that respite evades Will. 

“How did you sleep before you returned to the field?”

“Well enough,” Will says, finishing his coffee. “Usually six or more hours a night.”

“Nightmares?” Hannibal asks, sipping the last of his coffee, too. 

“Not many,” Will answers. His gaze flits to Hannibal. “I know your opinion. But I can’t quit. Not right now.”

Hannibal inclines his head to say that it’s Will’s choice. “Then we will have to manage your symptoms if we can’t treat their cause.” 

“What do you propose?” Will asks, not hiding his skepticism. 

Hannibal considers the question for a moment. “Transcendental meditation may help.” 

At Will’s incredulous expression, Hannibal adds, “The VA began studying it last year as a therapy for veterans with post-traumatic stress injury. It was used on veterans of the Vietnam war in the 1980s, too.” 

Will massages his head. “Yeah, maybe,” he says noncommittally. 

Will’s cell phone rings before Hannibal can respond. Will continues to massage his head, ignoring the phone. 

“It’s Jack,” he says with a sigh. 

“Jack gave you the phone,” Hannibal ventures. 

Will nods unhappily. He presses his fingers against his eyes as voicemail picks up and the ringing stops. 

Hannibal watches as Will slides out of the chair and looks around for his jacket. 

“In the living room,” Hannibal says, standing and collecting the plates. 

It’s just as well that Jack has interrupted them. He has little more to say to Will. Meditation probably would help him, but Will has to decide to accept help first. He is closer to that this morning than he was last night. In time, he will let Hannibal help him, but for now, he will go to Jack and seek the new horrors that will paint his dreams. 

Will returns, smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket. 

“If you want to try it,” Hannibal says, “I can introduce you to a specialist.” 

Will nods, still skeptical, and collects the aftershave. “Thanks for this,” he says awkwardly. “For everything.” 

“Any time,” Hannibal replies with a smile as he sees Will to the door. 

“Take care of yourself, Will,” he urges. Will fidgets, nods once, and leaves, shading his eyes from the bright morning light with a hand. 

Hannibal closes the door and turns to the meditative task of cleaning the kitchen. He has no appointments until this afternoon. Plenty of time to consider Will and Jack as variables in the equations he has written for himself. But first he will attend to his own pleasure. 

He goes to the guest bathroom and begins reconstructing the scene that occurred here less than an hour ago. His imagination may not rival Will’s, but he arranged this room to direct Will’s actions. He easily envisions them, feeling blood gather in his groin. 

He fingers the towel Will left on the towel rack. Still wet. He presses the towel to his face and inhales deeply, cataloging the separate scents. He finds the faint smell of semen and inhales again, studying its compounds. 

Hannibal stands still for a long time fixing the aroma in his mind as he plans his next move. 

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few ideas for future fics ~~but nothing is sparking my interest at the moment.~~ (Ten minutes after I wrote those words I started the next fic.) Nonetheless, if you like my writing and/or share my preoccupations, is there anything in particular you'd like to see?


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